The Persistence of Memory
by Sonata14
Summary: "I'm not asking you to do much," he said quietly. "All I need is one favor." Roger sighed. He knew the man was right; he wouldn't be here without reason. And if that reason was serious enough to ask a person like him for help, it really must be serious. "What do I need to do?" (One Piece AU)
1. One

**Hello friends!**

 **It's been so long since I last wrote...anything really. So long, in fact, that I've even changed my pen name. I used to be BatmanSwim2016, but now I'm Sonata14! (In case you're wondering, that's why character names/stories may sound familiar.) I'll wait until the end to add anything more, but for now, enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: Do I need to say it? It's on this site for a reason.**

* * *

 _ **The Persistence of Memory**_

 **One.**

For Roger, the day begins as it normally does: there's a migraine feeling like it was splitting his skull in half, too bright sunlight streams through the window, and the odor of his poor life decisions from the night before clings to his sheets. He groans and tries to cover his eyes with an arm wearing a shirt that should have been washed weeks ago, but it's no use. Through the fog in his brain, he has to estimate it's early morning, explaining the sun, but it doesn't explain why he was up so early.

That's when he feels it: the growing pressure on the back of his head that isn't caused by alcohol. A familiar feeling, but one he hasn't felt in years; the feeling that something was out of place and was coming for him.

Or that's already here. Was that his imagination, or does he hear footsteps on the ceiling?

It's too damn early for this, whatever his senses are trying to warn him about it. He'd go on deck, tell whoever was there to piss off, then go back to sleep. Somewhat resolved, but mostly annoyed, he pushes himself off the mattress and to his feet. He staggers a couple times walking down the hallway from his room to the stairs, but he somehow manages to get himself on deck without seriously injuring himself.

Oh, God. The sun is _so much worse_ out here. Roger mutters a curse and holds his head in his hands, covering his eyes from the harsh light. He pulls at his red hair, trying to will away the headache. He turns slowly, peering through his fingers, somehow knowing that the one who disturbed him was behind him at the wheel of the ship he calls home.

Sure enough, at the wheel is a suave-looking older man, wearing a casual suit with the shirt partially unbuttoned to show off a sun-tanned, toned chest. There was a pair of sunglasses on his face, covering his eyes, and silver hair on the top of his head. Roger drops his hands from his face and attempts to glare at the man, but ends up just squinting at him instead. It doesn't help him that the man was purposely standing with his back to the sun.

Finally giving up on the silence, Roger mutters, "What. The _fuck_. Do you want?"

The older gentlemen snorts, and is that a damn _sneer_ on his face? Hasn't he seen someone with a hangover before? Seriously, who just shows up on some person's ship and judges them silently for one night of bad decisions?

Well, to be fair, one of many nights of bad decisions. Still, what right does this guy have, anyway?

The man doesn't answer, taking his time descending the short set of stairs from the wheel to where Roger stands, walking in a circle around him, slowly. Like he has all the time in the damn world. This just pisses Roger off more, and he swear his headache worsens. The man stops in front of him.

"You," he says, breaking his silence, "look awful, if I may say so myself, Roger."

"Fuck you," is Roger's immediate response, too caught up with his stupid migraine to come up with something more clever.

"Language." The man takes a step away and a neutral expression slides into place. It's hard to tell with the damned sunglasses on, but Roger knows the man is passing judgement.

"You didn't answer my question," Roger shoots back, actually taking a step forward even though they both knew he isn't in any condition to start a fight. "What the hell are you doing here, and why the hell is it so early? Seriously, the sun's just come up."

"It isn't my fault you decided to try and drown yourself in booze." He sniffs. "And I'm actually here because I need you to do something."

"No." Roger turns around to walk back below deck. "Now get the fuck off my ship."

A sudden pressure fills the air between them and Roger stops. "I wasn't finished." The man says, voice suddenly going dark. "And you're not going anywhere."

Roger turns very slowly, allowing his own pressure to rise and fight the other man's. They stare at each other, a silent battle of wills going on between the two of them. Eventually, though, it is Roger who surrenders first. But only because of the migraine, because oh, God, it's tearing his brain apart. He staggers forward and grips the sides of his head again, desperately trying to squeeze it out so he can just think.

"Fuck you," he rasps again, praying his legs will not give out on him and send him down onto the deck.

"Roger," the man says seriously, coming forward to put his actual hand on Roger's shoulder. "Why do you do this to yourself?" When it became apparent there wouldn't be an answer, he sighs and begins to guide the younger man below deck. "Come on, then, let's find you a drink. There's got to be something on this God-forsaken boat that isn't alcohol."

~...~

Thirty minutes later, and they sit in Roger's cramped kitchen, a mug of black coffee in front of the younger man. His headache was better; not gone, but at least he could properly concentrate.

The older man had taken off his sunglasses and gazes around the kitchen with something akin to disdain in his electric blue eyes. Roger couldn't give a shit if his ship wasn't up to his standards; he's proud of every inch of the _Claris_ , even if she is on the small side.

"You still haven't answered my question," he grumbles. Blue eyes slide over to meet his grey ones.

"Yes, I did. I said I need your help. However, in your current state, I'm starting to question that."

Roger grunts and swallows a gulp of his coffee, not breaking eye contact. He's not even phased by the insult; honestly, he's come to expect worse from this man. Finally, the man in front of him sighs and closes his eyes.

"There have been rumors. Bad blood arising in the Powers of the New Order. One of them, calls himself the Baron, has been gaining a lot of attention recently, and his reach is growing fast. Some say he wants to seize control."

"That does seem like a problem." The older man quickly scowls, picking up the hint of sarcasm in Roger's voice. "What am I supposed to do about it? Politics are stupid, and everyone knows the New Order's been screwed from the beginning. That's what you get for asking a bunch of pirates to make a new government after wrecking the last one."

"The World Government needed to change." He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly fighting a headache of his own. "You know I wouldn't be here if this wasn't serious."

Roger stares at him. "You're literally asking the last person in the world who gives a shit, Damien."

"Dammit, Roger," Damien pounds the table with his fist, "this is bigger than just you or I, don't you understand that?" Roger takes satisfaction from getting a reaction out of him, even if it means most of his coffee was now on the tabletop.

There's a tense silence in the room before Damien finally retracts his fist with a sigh and sits back, running his long fingers through his hair. He finally looks up at Roger, a strange sort of resignation in his eyes.

"I'm not asking you to do much," he says quietly. "All I need is one favor."

Roger sighs. He knows the man was right; he wouldn't be here without reason. And if that reason was serious enough to ask a person like him for help, it really must be serious.

"What do I need to do?"

* * *

 **Annnnnnnd that's a wrap! For those of you wondering who Damien is, he starred in my original fic, _The Artful Dodger_. I don't even know what happened with that story, so don't try reading it. It still doesn't make any sense to me.**

 **A couple notes about this story in general: it's set after the end of One Piece. In its own way, it's an AU. Most of the characters are original, though some of our favorites may or may not come to visit. For the time being, though, this is a stand-alone story and has little, if anything, to do what's going on in One Piece.**

 **Anyway, let me know what you think! Favorite, follow, comment, send me some biscochitos...whatever strikes your fancy. Until next time,**

 **~Sonata14**


	2. Two

**_The Persistence of Memory_**

 **Two.**

Starfish City was known for several things. Among them included fun in the form of live entertainment; delicious food featuring certain species of animal native to this part of the Grand Line; and most of all, gambling. Every day, hundreds of people flocked to its small port in the Grand Line to waste away their money, integrity, and even lives. The slots were always loose, and any money you made, you could keep.

Roger was not interested in any of these things. It was the middle of summer on this stupid island, which meant sun and sweltering heat. He wished he was wearing anything but the black clothing on his body, but the shirt and pants were the cleanest things on the ship. Not that that was even saying much.

As he had rummaged through his belongings, his mother's voice chided him about doing laundry more often and _why haven't you cleaned this mess up yet?_ As soon as he finished this business for Damien, he vowed silently to her, he would clean the ship from stern to bow.

He touched the hat covering his hat, a baseball cap that was as black as the rest of his outfit. Normally, he wouldn't have bothered with the head covering, but Damien had insisted. Apparently he was "too noticeable" and would "jeopardize his position" on the island.

As annoying as the precautions were, Roger had to (reluctantly) admit the old man was right about being careful. Through the glimmer and shine of the people around him, he could easily pick out the people only posing as tourists, those placed here to dissuade anyone from any funny business. To most people, they would just be more faces in the crowd, but to his experienced eye, he could see their beefy forearms, practiced smiles, and too-carefree actions. These people were professionals, not to mention dangerous. There was also an...unsettling quality to the scenery around him; he couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it felt out-of-place. Like two slides that were supposed to be of the same image but weren't properly aligned.

Despite the annoying cliche of the Syndicate having an operation here, Roger could appreciate their hiding in plain sight. It was obvious none of the island's visitors were bothered, or really aware, of the dark underbelly of the glitzy casinos. For a moment, he pitied them. The moment passed and he snorted in disgust. Any fucker who was stupid enough to come to a place like Starfish City deserved everything coming toward him.

He wryly wondered what that made him. He picked up the photograph sitting on the table in front of him, then flipped it over for the information on the woman pictured.

Scarlett White was a young woman, looking to be around his age, with slim features and cherry red hair that reached to her mid back. She didn't look like much from the photo, really too skinny to be any threat to the untrained eye, but Roger wasn't easily fooled. Through the grainy shot, he could make out the wiry muscles winding up her arms into her shirt sleeves; her legs, too, in their tight black capris, had some definition to them. In the photo, she's wearing sunglasses and looking over her shoulder, but her pointed features were still viewable.

In another lifetime, or even a different day, Roger would have thought she was pretty, if not beautiful. Right now, though, she was just the person Damien sent him to find, nothing more.

~...~

 _"She's a mercenary," Damien explained, offering the picture to the younger man, "currently working as an informant for us and security at this branch of the Syndicate."_

 _Roger gave the photo a once-over. There was something familiar about the woman, but he couldn't quite place her past his headache. "Why do you need her?"_

 _"She's an excellent fighter, a good leader, and possibly the best navigator outside of the Pirate King's crew. She's been reliably passing us information for the last three years, and it's now time to pull her out to plan the next move."_

 _"What am I supposed to do?"_

 _"Give her this message: 'The dam is breaking.' And be sure to tell her it's from me, otherwise she might just take your head off."_

~...~

Roger sat at his table, carefully watching the docks for most of the afternoon. Scarlett had passed information to Damien about the shipping schedule, and at 4:00 there was supposed to be an important shipment which Scarlett was to be overseeing the unloading of. Roger arrived earlier, just in case he got a glimpse of the redheaded woman.

Speak of the devil, there she was, slim figure striding across the street toward the dock, hair shining marvelously in the sun and walking like she _owned_ the place. From this distance, he could barely make out a short cylinder attached to her belt at the small of her back, likely a weapon of some sort. A sense of familiarity came over him again, but he pushed this thought out of his mind as he saw the ship pull into the harbor.

He had to admit, it was a nice ship. Fully armed, modern, and just fucking _huge_. It slid neatly into the harbor, pulling into a space he would have thought to be too narrow. Roger half wondered why there weren't more people stopping and staring at the vessel, but then he realized nobody comes to a place like Starfish City to ask questions.

Roger watched as a couple burly men lowered a gangplank and began unloading large crates from the ship. He quickly lost interest, focusing more on Scarlett. Though her back was turned and she stood a considerable distance away, Roger could _feel_ the impatience rolling off of her in waves. Her posture was tense, and she kept glancing over her shoulders. He wondered if she could sense his staring.

The last of the crates was unloaded, and a couple new hands arrived to take them away. Scarlett was once again overseeing this process, only turning away once the last of them was taken away. She said something to one of the men from the ship, who saluted and went back up the gangplank. Scarlett turned and began following the crates into town as the ship pulled out of the harbor.

Roger stood, stretching his arms above his head, not letting the woman out of his sight. He casually walked forward, hands in his pockets and head down, letting the cap's brim cover his eyes. He followed Scarlett and the men with the crates from a distance. Eventually, though, they came into a more crowded area, where Roger almost lost their little caravan. Thinking quickly, he climbed a fire escape to the rooftop of a shop nearby. From there, he caught a glimpse of Scarlett's red hair disappear around a corner. He stalked across the rooftop, jumping to the next one across a mercifully narrow alley. He scanned the street below, not finding any trace of the woman or the crates. Cursing, he picked a direction and hopped from rooftop to rooftop, searching for her anywhere among the crowd.

After ten minutes of finding nothing, he finally saw her again, alone in the alley with one of the men from the docks. The crates were nowhere in sight, but Roger really didn't give a damn; they weren't his target to begin with. The pair was speaking in short, quiet tones, so he couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could see Scarlett was still on-edge about something. She dismissed the worker with a wave of her hand and began walking in the opposite direction as him.

Roger couldn't believe this stroke of luck as he hurried to follow her. Below him, she rounded a corner; above her, he jumped to the next building. They continued this for a while, she winding her way through the city via alleys, he following from a distance via roof. A small, nagging part of him (which he thought sounded annoyingly like Damien) asked why she was taking the long way around the city rather than the main streets, but he dismissed it. She was fairly noticeable between the hair and the pretty features (even twisted in contempt as they were now) that she probably wanted to stray away from the crowds.

She rounded another corner and he followed from above, only to discover she had vanished. Roger blinked, then craned his neck to make sure she wasn't there, but the redhead was nowhere in sight. A prickling at the back of his neck made him tense and prepare to turn around, but it was too late. A long, metal cylinder struck him on the left side of the face as he turned, making him lose his balance and fall off the building.

Roger managed to land in a crouch, despite the pain blossoming on his face. He tenderly touched the skin beside his left eye and winced. There was a little blood and it would definitely bruise, but that was honestly the least of his worries at the moment. He quickly looked up to the roof he had previously been standing on, but there was no one there. He grunted in irritation. She (he was certain it was Scarlett) must be pretty fucking _fast_ if she managed to scale the building without him seeing.

"Don't turn around unless you want your head knocked off your shoulders." A woman's voice commanded from behind him. Roger decided to ignore her and began to turn anyway, but his face brushing against the metal of her staff made him stop. Slowly, he raised his hands to his shoulders, leaving them open. There was a charged silence between them, making him uncomfortable. He wasn't in any shape to fight (hadn't been for months) and it was clear she was serious about the head threat.

Finally, he said, "So-"

"You've been following me." She cut him off harshly. "Why?"

"Scarlett, right? I have a message," he answered, remembering Damien mentioning she decapitated freely. "From this old guy named Damien. Know him?"

There was a loaded pause, in which the staff dropped fractionally. A second passed, and the staff moved higher, closer to his ear.

"What does _he_ want?" She all but snarled.

"You're not a very patient woman," he observed. She shifted the staff until it rested completely against the side of his head. "Fine, fine. He says, 'The dam is breaking.' Nothing else."

The staff began to move away from his head and Roger let himself take in a breath. It was back, though, this time at the back of his head, where the edge of the cap met his skull.

"Who are you?" Scarlett asked quietly, all traces of impatience replaced with thoughtfulness. He didn't answer. She used her staff to knock the cap from his head, causing his own blood red hair to spill out over his crown.

Roger was slightly self-conscious about his hair. Really, it was the only part of his appearance he consistently took care of, but he had let it grow a little too shaggy. It was probably hideous from being in the damn cap. Even so, she quietly gasped at the sight of it.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Okay, well, I've upheld my end of the bargain, so if you don't mind-"

"Stop." She ordered, tone turning serious again.

It was his turn to get irritated. "Look, lady, I was asked to give you a message, which I did, so put down the stick and let me leave."

"Not yet," she said. "I still have questions. Here's not a safe place, though." She mulled this over. It annoyed Roger that he couldn't turn around and see her face.

Finally, she said, "Alright, here's what's going to happen. Close your eyes." Roger sighed, but obeyed. He bowed his head to indicate he had done so. "I'm going to leave quietly, and you're not going to follow me." He felt her slip something into the back pocket of his pants, making him jump.

"Hey! What are you-?"

"That's my address. Memorize it and destroy it. Meet me there tonight. We have to get out of here."

"'We?'" He muttered. But there wasn't an answer. Roger slowly counted to sixty, then opened his eyes and turned around. Just as he suspected, he was alone, with absolutely no evidence there was anyone else there to begin with.


	3. Three

**Hey all!**

 **I figured I should let you know before we went any further, but I went back an edited the first two chapters. Go check them out, if you want! I changed the ending of the first chapter, it wasn't sticking right with me. Anywho, on with the show!**

* * *

 _ **The Persistence of Memory**_

 **Three.**

Even though she said to meet him that night, Roger didn't waste any time locating her house. Not like he had anything else to do. He knew very well that he could easily just leave the island, his mission accomplished, but something about Scarlett made him curious enough to stay.

The house sat at the base of a small hill, walking distance from the city but secluded enough to feel like a different island entirely. It was small, but cozy-looking. Private. Safe.

The lock on the front door did not pose a problem. Once he had the door open, he felt a slight twinge of guilt. He dismissed it on the grounds that if she didn't want him snooping, she shouldn't be so damned mysterious and demanding all at once.

The inside of the house was as tiny as the outside hinted at. There wasn't much in the way of decorations or furniture; there was a small couch, a coffee table, bookshelf, and a couple pieces of artwork. Through a cracked door, he caught a glimpse of a bed.

If he didn't know any better, he wouldn't think anyone really lived here. The place honestly looked like it was a rental. The only remotely personal items were the books on the shelf, which were just books about navigation and sailing.

Roger moved from the living room to the kitchen. There were a couple pots and pans in the cabinets, but nothing spectacular. There was a battered copy of a cookbook on the counter. It didn't have a cover, so he couldn't tell from first glance who wrote it, but it looked pretty generic.

Just like the rest of this place. It bugged him, how tidy and unlived this house looked. It made him feel like he was missing something obvious.

The bedroom didn't offer much either. The bed was small, just big enough for one person, and covered with simple white linens. The dresser had basic clothes: shirts, pants, various undergarments. (Roger was quick to close _that_ drawer. He was a snoop, yes, but not a pervert.)

He let out a groan of frustration. There was _nothing_ in this stupid house that gave him a clue who Scarlett actually was. He sat heavily on the corner of the bed, debating his next move. As he did so, a floorboard under the leg of the bed began to lift.

Normally, he wouldn't have given this a second thought. But being in a house where nothing was out of place, the loose board immediately caught his attention.

"What have we here?" He muttered to himself, scooting the bed across the floor until the floorboard was completely uncovered. After a moment of pressing, he managed to get his fingertips under it. It took a few tries, but he finally pried the board up. However, he misjudged the amount of force needed to lift the board, as well as his position on the ground, so the strength he pulled it up with sent him rolling onto his back.

Roger rolled back onto all fours and crawled to the new hole in the floor, tossing the board off to the side somewhere. He peered down, squinting through the darkness.

There _was_ something down there, he saw the glint of light on metal. Eagerly, he reached down, grunting when his fingers just barely brushed it. He pressed himself into the floor, willing his arm to stretch just a little bit farther.

What he wouldn't give for the Pirate King's rubber body, he thinks dryly. Finally, with a "Gotcha!" he wraps his fingers around one of the edges of whatever it is and pulls upward.

It's a small metal lockbox, which was, predictably, locked. It posed as much of a problem as the front door did.

Inside the box were a couple wads of bills, a journal, and some faded pictures of paper.

No, not paper, he realized. _Wanted posters_.

Back in the days of the World Government, pirates and other enemies of the Marines were given bounties based on strength and the level of threat they posed to the military. Naturally, once the World Government was overthrown by the Revolutionaries, these bounties became void, and all of the old wanted posters were taken out of circulation. Nowadays, they were collectors' items, and it looked like Scarlett had quite the collection.

Roger idly flipped through the stack, impressed by the ones she had gathered. " _Surgeon of Death" Trafalgar Law, "Captain" Eustass Kidd_...there were even a couple of the Pirate King's crew, like "Pirate Hunter" Zoro and "Black Leg" Sanji, probably both worth a pretty penny now. He was surprised to see one of Straw Hat himself, long before he became King. His childish face grinned up at him through the faded photograph as if he _knew_ he was going to flip the world upside down.

Another poster made him pause. It was Whitebeard's second-in-command, who later led the crew once the old man died at Marineford. In the photo, Marco "The Phoenix" is halfway through his Zoan transformation, blue flames surrounding him as he smirks at the camera. Roger snorted at the nonchalance. For someone as wanted as he used to be, Marco looked like he couldn't care less, like he _welcomed_ trouble. He was at the top of his game. Why would he act like he was touchable when the world knew he was invincible?

Of course, he _wasn't_ invincible, as the world quickly found out. He and the other Whitebeard Pirates saw their fair amount of sorrow between losing their captain and nearly being wiped out by Blackbeard. They had gone into hiding for _months_ before they emerged to help Straw Hat seize the One Piece, a battle that was apparently _legendary_ for pirates and Marines alike.

Roger flipped to the next poster and was momentarily stunned. A woman, who (at the time) was probably close to Roger's age, on the back of an eagle, looking over her shoulder with piercing golden eyes. Roger's eyes widened as his lips part in shock.

He now knew why Damien was so interested. More importantly, he thought hollowly, he knew who Scarlett is.

"I didn't take you for the 'breaking and entering' type."

~...~

Far away, a black bird flew over the ocean. He beat the air with purpose, ignoring the small ships of sailors he passed on his way to his destination. Below him, the people on the boats stared and pointed at his large black form, but he paid them no mind.

 _Finally_ , he thought, seeing his target on the horizon: an enormous ship with the figurehead of a whale. He beat his wings a little harder, fingers of black electricity crackling off his feather tips with each stroke.

He flew up alongside the ship, easily soaring above the deck. He circled overhead, scanning the deck for the best place to land. He noted with a certain smugness that the crew had noticed him, and were coming up from below deck to watch him.

 _It would be rude of me to make them wait any longer_ , he thought. And without any further ado, he dove for the deck, coming down in a brilliant fork of black lightning.

He transformed and landed in a perfect crouch in the middle of a circle of the spectators. His lips pulled into a smirk as they gasped and aimed weapons at his smirk widened when whispers broke out amongst the people present.

"Is that-?"

"It's him! That's-"

"The captain! Someone get the captain!"

"Thunderbird Damien!" One voice broke through the din. "Hands where we can see them!"

Damien complied, raising his palms to eye-level as he stood up, pulling himself to his full height. He turned his smirk into a sly grin as he surveyed the hubbub on deck. He turned to face the owner of the voice, a familiar man in a kimono, who was pointing a gun at his face.

"Izo!" He greeted amicably. The aforementioned man only scowled and raised a second gun. "You're looking wonderful! It's been too long!"

"Not long enough, in my opinion," the crossdresser muttered, rolling the hammers back on both of his pistols.

Damien pretended to pout, tilting his head to the side. "That's not fair, Izo. Aren't you glad to see me?"

"I can't possibly imagine why I would be."

"You wound me, old friend." The pirate bristled at the familiarity. "Where is my brother? I have news."

Izo opened his mouth to respond, but his eyes were drawn to something behind Damien. He snapped his lips back together in a firm line as a hush came over the deck.

"What are you doing here, yoi?" Someone snapped. Damien's grin returned as he slowly turned around to face the piercing blue eyes of his younger brother.

Marco the Phoenix stood across the deck, lips in a thin line, eyes narrowed. His muscular arms were crossed over his chest, under which Damien could see the dark blue ink of his tattoo. Damien's grin widened and he stretched his arms out, as if to hug his brother. Marco's eyes narrowed further, and he tilted his chin down to glower at him.

"My dear brother!" Damien exclaimed, beginning to walk across the wooden deck. He was met with guns, swords, and other weapons being shoved into his face. His smile never wavered. "How have you been? And where is my favorite sister-in-law? Did she not want to come to see me?"

Ignoring his questions, Marco shot back, "What do you want, Damien?"

"Always pleasant, aren't you?" Damien muttered. "Anyway, I came because I have news that will interest you."

Marco remained silent, but one eyebrow slid up his forehead in question.

"It's about Emma."

~...~

Roger openly gaped at the woman in the doorway, wanted posters forgotten in his hand. She stood, arms at her side, hands clenching and relaxing at her hips. Despite her accusatory tone, she seemed unsure, skittish. Before, he had thought she looked thin, but now, up close, he could see she was actually pretty haggard, like she had starved herself. She seemed smaller here, even though in reality her head cleared Roger's shoulders. Her skin, though tan, had a waxy appearance. And her eyes…

Her eyes, electric blue with streaks of gold, stared back at him; there was a hint of desperation in those eyes, silently begging to do _something_ other than just sit there.

Swallowing thickly, he stood up, tossing the pieces of paper on the bed. "Hello, Emma," he whispered.

Emma's mouth twitched, like she was fighting a smile. "Hello, Roger."

* * *

 **Feels like we're** _ **finally**_ **getting somewhere! As always, thanks for reading!**

 **~Sonata14**


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